


Flipping the Board

by Delcat



Series: The Skies We're Under [14]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Chess Nerding, Choking, Corruption, Dominance, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, Eye Trauma, Forced Orgasm, Gore, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Kink, Needles, Overstimulation, Rape/Non-con Elements, Smoking, Submission, Torture, disturbing mental images
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-18
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-19 19:58:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1482073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delcat/pseuds/Delcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With enough time and effort, even the most unusual circumstances can turn into a kind of normal.  But with rules being broken and secrets being kept, even a kind of normal can’t last…</p><p>NOTE: Light editing and updating completed 10/9/2016 for cohesion with the rest of the series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First

Time moved differently down here.  
  
Maxwell couldn’t say, if asked, how long it had been since he had opened his door to find Wilson slumped against it.  How long it had been since he had picked him up and he had had just enough strength to train his eyes on his and whisper “I remember” in a hoarse, half-crazed voice before dropping into oblivion.  He could put an estimate on how long it had taken Wilson to recover, the time spent coaxing him back out of the pain and nightmares into a human being again, but that estimate would be “too damn’ long”.  
  
But time moved, even if it moved differently.  It had been slow going, but Wilson had healed.  There were scars there, body and mind, that weren’t going to fade, but he could walk again, and he no longer woke up screaming.  Most of the time.  
  
Time had passed, and eventually things had turned into a kind of normal.  
  
However, as Maxwell impassively watched Wilson gesturing wildly with an enormous leafed eyeball, he had to cede that “normal” was a relative term here.  
  
"They’re everywhere!  It’s a, a garden!  An entire garden of eyes!  And a…something else, but it’s passive—at least more passive than the eyes, they’re sort of, sort of pinchy and they eat b-b-b-b-birds, but I was able to subdue this one—"  
  
"Get over here."  
  
Wilson winced at the controlled burn of Maxwell’s voice, immediately losing steam.  “But—”  
  
"Now."  
  
He dropped the plant and stepped forward, kneeling at Maxwell’s feet.  
  
"What were you thinking?"  
  
"I-I wasn’t—" Wilson whimpered as Maxwell grabbed his collar, pulled him up by it so they were face-to-face.  
  
"You weren’t thinking?  Not surprised, pal.  You have pulled some dumb fucking stunts, but this takes the cake."  He tightened his grip and Wilson squirmed, choking.  "You watched it eat a damn _bird_ and you decided to waltz on in there anyway?”  His hand slipped around his neck and squeezed, blood running underneath his fingertips, Wilson’s throat spasming for breath.    
  
” _What were you thinking?_ ”  
  
He shoved Wilson back, lit a cigar as he lay coughing and shaking on the floor.  
  
"Well?"  
  
Wilson muttered something, cheeks pink.  
  
"Can’t hear ya, kid."  
  
"…th-thought I could…make a new one…"  
  
Maxwell paused, the tip of his cig flaring briefly.  
  
"…with science…"  
  
He sighed smoke, and when he spoke this time, there was resignation in his voice.  “Get over here.”  
  
Wilson picked himself up with some difficulty, and the little man shuddered as Maxwell pulled off his eyepatch, keeping him still with one hand on his cheek.  He fidgeted uncomfortably as Maxwell studied his dead eye.  
  
"You can’t just _make_ body parts, sweetheart.”  
  
"N-not from scratch, but they’re already growing, it’s a simple matter of, of h-h-hybridization, of choosing the most f-favorable specimens, the smallest, the—the most docile—it would take time but then—"  
  
"Then?"  
  
He let his hand drop, and Wilson stared at the floor, face hot.  Maxwell could hear the belief leaving his voice with every word, and while it was for the best, it was…troubling.  Wilson’s obsession with his bad eye wasn’t a factor he had planned for, and it was poorly controlled.  The last time it had overtaken him, he had broken a mirror and Maxwell had barely caught him before he used a shard to put it out.  A couple of days spent caged had brought him around again, but the vulnerability was a wild card Maxwell didn’t appreciate having in the deck.  
  
On the other hand, watching Wilson focusing on the patch in his hand and growing more and more agitated, Maxwell was inclined to cede that vulnerability wasn’t an entirely bad thing.  
  
"Looking for something, pal?"  
  
"…please give it back…"  
  
"Ashamed of those baby blues?"  
  
"G-give it back.  Please, I d-don’t like…"  
  
"Give, give, give…what about me, friend?  You wouldn’t stiff me out of an even trade, would you?"  
  
Wilson hesitated, shivering, then silently began undoing Maxwell’s pants.  The older man chuckled softly, running a hand through his hair as his head lowered.  
  
"Good boy."  
  
Wilson was an awkward man, all limbs and forward momentum, and he was no more delicate when it came to sex.  What he lacked in skill, though, he made up for in eagerness.  His face was stubborn as he took the head of Maxwell’s cock into his mouth, but it betrayed him as one leather shoe pressed into his thigh.  
  
"You’re like a horny teenager, do you realize that?" Maxwell pressed harder, enjoying the way Wilson’s breath hitched on his skin in response.  "It never fails to amaze."  He curled a hand into his hair.  "You just can’t get enough."  
  
Wilson tried to pull back, to protest, then faltered and whimpered as Maxwell gave his hair a warning pull.  
  
"Eyes on the prize, pet."  
  
He gave in, letting Maxwell guide him down onto his length, choking briefly as it slid into the back of his throat.  Blood rose in his cheeks as Maxwell tapped the ashes from the cigar into his hair with a quiet sigh, but he kept his pace, tongue working softly between his lips to reach what he couldn’t manage.  
  
_Damn, he was good tonight._ Not that he’d say it in that many words, exactly, but there were ways…  
  
Wilson froze, arching his back as Maxwell slipped one leg between his, forcing him to straddle it.  He looked up pleadingly, shaking his head as much as he could at Maxwell’s smirk, blushing harder.  
  
"Aw, don’t be shy now, pal, you’re already acting like a—" He bit back on the word ‘dog’ just in time to keep from spoiling the evening. "…whore, might as well splash out on it."  
  
The fight between humiliation and need on Wilson’s face was intoxicating, all the more so as he gave in and started rubbing his aching bulge against Maxwell’s leg, tiny desperate moan rumbling pleasantly in his filled throat.  More pleasant as he was unable to hold back, moaning again, growing louder as he thrust his hips hungrily forward, not complaining as Maxwell matched his pace, throatfucking him steadily, relentlessly.  
  
"Dirty little thing,"  Maxwell took a deep drag of smoke, enjoying the warm spread of pleasure in his body, enjoying the mounting sounds of Wilson’s loss of control more.  "I’m not cleaning up after you, understand."  He tightened his grip on his hair, smirked at the gasp it earned.  "Or do you even want that, little slut?"  Panic, shame, almost too much, and it was an effort of will to keep his hand steady.  "Yes?  Be good, then, and swallow, and maybe I won’t make you stay in it."  He brought his leg up, his hand down.  "Stay in your _filth_ —”  
  
Checkmate.  
  
As Wilson thrust frantically against him in the throes of his climax, Maxwell held his head down, shooting deep into his tightened throat, forcing him to swallow over and over again.  He held the moment briefly, shivering in pleasure, before letting go of Wilson’s hair and kicking him back.  He lit a fresh cigar as he choked and moaned on the floor.  
  
"Not bad, sweetheart."  He tossed the eyepatch down as an afterthought, and Wilson scrabbled for it, tying it on with trembling hands.  "Not bad at all."  
  
Wilson didn’t look back as Maxwell made himself decent—that was one lesson that had been very quickly learned—but his ears were pink, and he could tell he was pleased despite himself.  “…c-c-c-can—may I change my clothes, please.”  
  
"I never promised that, pal."  
  
"B-but—but I—" He turned, voice tight.  
  
"Take ‘em off."  
  
Wilson bit his lip, opened his mouth, then sighed and began stripping resignedly, ignoring Maxwell’s leer.  
  
"And get rid of that thing once you’re done.  Those peepers bug me."  
  
Wilson sighed again, harried, and picked up the eyeplant.  “I-I-I think I could really do something with them.  If, if you’d just come see for yourself—”  
  
Maxwell bristled.  “How many times do I have to tell you, kid?  I don’t do the great outdoors.”  
  
"You, you have before."  He whistled for Chester, absently putting away both his clothes and the specimen.  "Before—"  
  
"That was different."  
  
Wilson straightened, not looking back at Maxwell, hugging himself in protection from the constant draft.  “I d-don’t think it’s good for you staying in here all the time, if, if you’d—”  
  
"Don’t push it."  
  
"—just—"  
  
"Wilson…"  
  
"—g-go outside—"  
  
Maxwell was up, twisting Wilson around by one hand, slamming him against the wall before he could finish the word.  
  
” _I’ve told you—_ ”  
  
The words died on his lips as the high, keening rabbit-scream registered in his ears, eerie and horribly familiar.  Wilson’s gaze was fixed somewhere beyond the ceiling, and Maxwell knew that if he flipped back his eyepatch, his dead eye would be tracking wildly, following things only he saw, things not to be spoken of.  
  
"Snap out of it, pal.  Snap out of it!"  
  
Letting go didn’t help, and Maxwell’s gaze swept the room for what was setting him off, not panicking because Maxwell never panicked but nervous, nervous sure.  No dogs here, ever, and the light was good, so what—  
  
There was a shadow hand on Wilson’s shoulder.  
  
Maxwell stared in disbelief.  It wasn’t his.  It couldn’t be his, it was on Wilson’s shoulder, digging deep into the scar there, and he _knew_ what that did to him, didn’t just set off nauseating thrills of pain and make dead nerves burn until it felt like entire muscles were gone, but sent him straight down the ladder into whatever darkness he had seen when he was sick, whatever nightmares had robbed him of his voice.  A touch there was education, was control, but this was cruelty—  
  
He broke the shadow with difficulty, immediately knelt by Wilson as he slumped to the floor.  Chester tried to push in, keening herself, and he pushed her away irritably.  
  
"Hey.  Hey, kid, come on.  Look at me."  
  
Wilson was blank, chest heaving, shaking badly.  When Maxwell lifted his head, his face and eyepatch were damp from tears, but he wasn’t crying, or wasn’t connecting to the fact that he was.  Wasn’t connecting to anything.  
  
"Dammit— _Wilson!_ ”  
  
The sound of his name brought him back around, cleared his gaze.  He laughed jaggedly, and for a moment Maxwell was afraid he wouldn’t stop, but the hysteria faded into exhaustion.  
  
"Maxwell…?"  
  
He managed a smile, glad he wasn’t looking closely enough to see the sweat on his brow.  “Hey, pal.  You went down, there.”  
  
"Maxwell, wh-why…what, what did I d-do wrong, you said you wouldn’t—you _said you w-w-wouldn’t you promised_ —”  
  
The hurt in Wilson’s voice as it rose ripped at something in Maxwell’s chest, and he covered his mouth, shutting him up, stemming the panic.  His own voice was all silk and sweetness, a showman’s best.  
  
"Calm down, sweetheart, you’re not making any sense.  You’re seeing things again."  
  
Wilson’s expression wavered, and he craned his neck, trying uncertainly to see his shoulder.  
  
"It was Chester, that’s all.  Saw her out of the corner of your eye and you thought you saw…well, you know what you thought you saw, right?"  
  
The misdirection worked.  Wilson shuddered at the thought of hounds, and Maxwell could see him crafting the memory into place, _willing_ it there sooner than face reality.  It was really too easy, and he felt something twist inside again.  
  
"You just need to lie down for a bit.  Come on."  
  
He put an arm around him, and while the contact sparked something briefly in Wilson’s eyes, it faded just as quickly, and he put up no resistance with being helped to his feet, leaning heavily on Maxwell’s side.  
  
"Maxwell, you’re…y-you’re sure you—"  
  
"Shh." He cast a glance back toward the wall. "It was just a trick of the light."


	2. Second

After some great degree of trial and error, Wilson’s room had been built to exacting specifications.  It was small, tightly enclosed, and had enough light flowers growing to diffuse natural shadows.  His bed was bolted into the left corner, blocking off any approach from his blind side while allowing him a view of the door.  Usually, it didn’t take more than a few minutes for him to calm once he was locked safely inside, but this time several cycles of jerking awake in a cold sweat and being coaxed back down into sleep again were required before Maxwell felt safe leaving him.  
  
It was fortunate that he was no longer allowed mirrors.  The bruise on his collarbone was…telling.  
  
Maxwell turned the thought over as he sat down on his own bed, a maginificent red velvet four-poster that was, of course, entirely nonexistent.  Color and light bled down into the floor as the illusion faded, and he stretched his hands habitually, uselessly, as the bonds of his throne appeared.  
  
God, it was miserable down here.  
  
It didn’t hurt, not really, not after this long.  That made it worse.  Everything in the throne room—sound, sight, light, cold—was damp, muted, not dead but dying.  Maxwell understood his little pet’s need for pain, oh yes.  Once you’d spent enough time in the dark, any bright spark was treasured.  
  
There was good and bad pain, though, things Wilson would and wouldn’t put up with.  The first time Maxwell had put out his cigar on his chest, it had sent him into paroxysms of hunger so unbounded as to be alarming, and yet the first time he had unthinkingly grabbed him by the shoulder to get his attention, both of them on equal ground, there had been paroxysms of a different nature, shuddering acute enough to drop him to the floor.  
  
And whose fault was that?  
  
Maxwell had had to shake him, hard, to bring him around, and when he had come back to himself, he had _begged_ Maxwell, begged him on his knees not to do it again, not to hurt him again, and, and…  
  
He had promised, and whatever else could be said of him, Maxwell was a man of his word.  
  
Until now.  
  
He pounded a fist against the throne, teeth bared.  He hadn’t done anything, dammit!  Something had happened, but he hadn’t caused it.  Not all of the shadows were under his control, he already knew that—  
  
But you wanted to do it, didn’t you, friend?  You thought it.  You were just that mad.  
  
The tip of Maxwell’s cigar flared.  
  
"Show yourself."  
  
_You wound me, pal.  You know where I am.  But if you insist…_  
  
A shadow stretched away from the throne, took flesh.  There was wavering darkness around its frame like heat shimmer off a fire, but beyond that and the eyes, he could’ve been looking in a mirror.  
  
"Say, pal." The other Maxwell grinned, its own cigar flaring blue.  "You look ghastly."  
  
"What the hell are you?"  
  
"Oh come on, friend, you know me."  The Other leaned in over Maxwell, smirking as he recoiled from the light.  "I’ve been right here with you all along.  Thick or thin, rain or shine—metaphorically speaking, of course, not much weather to speak of down here, is there?"  
  
Maxwell sat impassively as the spectre closed its hands over his, held back a hiss of discomfort.  Its flesh was cold, bitingly so, and the air around it was even more stifling than the rest of the dungeon.  He bit back the only way he could.    
  
"You’re a cute little parlor trick.  Buzz off, kid, I’ve got stuff to do."  
  
The Other laughed as it straightened.  “Oh, you’re _terribly_ busy, I can see.  Or do you mean up there?”  It gestured toward…Maxwell thought there might be a roof somewhere, or a sky, but the yawning darkness overhead was the same as in any other direction.  “Cute little parlor tricks, sure.  How much energy are you using on _that_ one?  It must be exhausting.”  
  
"Same as any other world."  
  
"Then why do you look so tired?"  
  
Maxwell ignored the question.  “Real funny gag with the hand, bud.  A real laugh riot.  Do it again and I’ll—”  
  
"You’ll what?"  The Other was leaning in over him again, breathing icy smoke in his face, and Maxwell turned aside despite himself, coughing.  "Seems to me you’ve been breaking a few rules, pal."  
  
"I haven’t—"  
  
"And for what?  A sad little scrap of a man that had less of a future before you dragged him in than after?"  It tightened its grip on Maxwell’s wrists.  "Kick him to the curb, friend.  Get rid of him or it gets worse."  
  
"You want me to kill hi—"  
  
"You know exactly what I want you to do."  
  
Maxwell looked, unbidden, at the Keyhole.  “…no.”  
  
The Other straightened, grinning, and shrugged expansively.  “Your choice, pal.  It’s all about choice.  Just remember…” It grinned wider as it saw Maxwell mouthing the phrase unconsciously, so familiar it could have been carved into his forehead.  “…even a king is bound to the board.”  
  
It took a drag, let Maxwell brood before dropping the last note diffidently, purposefully.  “Been a while since you’ve heard from your little boyfriend, huh?”  
  
As Maxwell paled and Moved, and the Other faded into the rest of the shadows, its laughter echoed from distant walls.


	3. Third

"Easy girl…come on, e-e-easy does it…"  
  
Chester whined, backing away from Wilson’s outstretched hand.  
  
"I j, just need you to bite me a little bit." He scratched unthinkingly at his leg with his other hand, contorted in bed.  "Just…just b-b-bite here and luh, let them out, all right?"  He slitted his eyes closed, not wanting to see the scar when it burst, all dry meat and maggots.  "Please, Chessie, h-hurry, please…"  
  
Smoke clouded the air, and Wilson curled in tighter on himself.  
  
"What are you doing?"  
  
Maxwell’s voice was…Maxwell didn’t understand these things.  Wilson didn’t look at him.  This was going to go badly.  
  
"I asked you a question."  
  
Wilson swallowed, throat dry.  “It’s…th-they’re burrowing again, they’ll be f-flies soon and it won’t h-h-hold and I don’t want her to see because she’s s-s-s-s-seen enough—”  
  
"Who’s ‘she’?"  
  
"The l-little girl in the corner."  
  
Maxwell actually looked, and something close to Wilson’s core was scared by that, but the fear was there and gone, the crawling pain in his leg devouring his thoughts.  
  
"Nobody here but us chickens, pal." He took Wilson’s wrist in one hand.  "I—"  
  
**_"White birds are strict contraband, Mr. Carter, caged or not the doves will have to be scrawled."_**  
  
For a moment Maxwell’s grip was slack from shock, then it was tight enough to grind the fine bones of Wilson’s hand together as he pulled him up by it, disregarding his moan of pain.  _"What the hell did you just say to me?"_  
  
"I-I-I didn’t say a-anything please it h-hurts—" He hadn’t, he truly hadn’t, how could he not see the hooks in his shoulder, the hooks everywhere that damned bird was?  How did he not know they were in Hell?  
  
He let Wilson go, pressed him firmly down on the bed.  Chester’s whining was only just audible over the blaring radio static, and Maxwell had to repeat himself twice before Wilson could make it out.  
  
"Have you been taking your pills?"  
  
He shook his head, a tic working at the corner of his mouth.  No, no he hadn’t, and if he knew why—if the blackbird told him why— “I—I f-f-forgot, I—”  
  
"Shut up.  Shut up and let me think."  
  
Wilson obeyed, not making a sound as Maxwell took his hand away from his leg, glared at the blood drying underneath his fingernails.  The Corporal watched, beak not moving as he whispered to him.  
  
**_Do you think he’d sew your mouth shut, my dear?  Do you think that would save you from the machines?  You could ask._**  
  
"Stop _lying_ to me."  He wasn’t sure if he said it aloud or not, wasn’t sure what was preferable, but there was no punishment doled out.  Or he thought, but then he felt the snap of the rubber being tied off on his arm.  
  
"No no no no no _nononono_ —”  
  
Maxwell covered his mouth, catching him as he tried to climb the wall in a blind panic, pinning him there.  “Shut _up!_ ”  
  
Wilson bit blindly at leather as the needle went in, as the tubes went in as the rot went in the dark yellow stink in his throat and the scream in his throat and the hand on his throat and the worms in his leg and the ants in the dark round eyes and  
  
And it was over.  
  
Not the injection.  As Wilson came back to himself, he could feel the tip of the syringe in his flesh, a nearly unbearable intrusion.  He hated needles, hated the sickly feeling of something foreign being forced into his veins, a fear that Maxwell usually mocked him mercilessly for, but there was no taunting now, just a tired silence as the room faded back from monochrome.  The hole in his stomach was gone, the swinging hooks, the girl in the rain boots.  As Maxwell untied the belt from his arm and the burn of the medication diffused upward, he recognized it as leather, not…not whatever he had thought, it was already draining down the back of his skull into his spine, and oh God, it was so _tiring_.   
  
He let his master lay him down, silent as he stroked Wilson’s hair, his neck, watching his eyes.  A jag shot through his body at a last surge of confusion, a sudden conviction that the worms had spread, but the seizing tensed his leg and he understood again that there had never _been_ any worms, that it just…  
  
…that it just always felt that way when he pushed himself, and whose fault was that?  
  
Maxwell lowered his eyepatch.  He hadn’t realized it had been up.  
  
"What’d you see?"  
  
His voice was quiet and even, the way it always was after his…fits.  Wilson’s wasn’t.  
  
"…b-bird doctor again."  
  
He flinched as Maxwell tilted his face up, speech honey-soft.  
  
"Sweetheart…Wilson.  How many times do I have to tell you?  There ain’t any bird.  It’s all in your head."  
  
"…body’s u-useless as a vessel, it’s too, too broken, he just…just wants me swallowed up—"  
  
The tightened grip was warning and comfort in the same breath, and Wilson stopped.  
  
"…you said something about a girl."  
  
"She h-hates because he teaches hate— _Maxwell please_ —” He fumbled at the hand that was suddenly on his throat.  
  
"What did she look like?"  
  
He swallowed repeatedly, alarmed by the intensity in Maxwell’s eyes, and looked at the corner, filling in the details.  “V-very small, just—just a few years old, dark hair a, and rain all the time, it’s always raining where she is—”  
  
"You sure about the hair?  You’re _sure?_ ”  
  
"Yes!  Y-yes, it’s dark and short and—the man with her has a hole in his head, Maxwell please _you’re hurting me_.”  
  
The last words came out as a gasp, and Maxwell’s hand fell away immediately.  Wilson covered the spot, coughing, scared.  Being grabbed or even picked up by the throat was something he was entirely used to by now, he had even been shaken by the nape of his neck once or twice like a bad…like a bad pet, but it was never to harm him.  Never, not like this.  
  
And not like his shoulder.  
  
He had let himself believe because Maxwell had believed, if only briefly, but he remembered.  He remembered the hooks—the _claws_ in his scar, and he remembered the loss of control in Maxwell’s eyes when he came back up.  
  
Something was breaking apart.  
  
"…just nerves, sweetheart, didn’t mean anything by it."  He got up, didn’t turn when Wilson clutched at his shirt.  
  
"Don’t—don’t go, please, I’m s-sorry, I didn’t mh, mean to—p-please don’t go."  
  
The sigh might have been hidden, if not for the puff of smoke.  
  
"You didn’t…I’ve got something I need to do.  Your leg better?"  
  
Wilson touched it, turned it cautiously, trying not to see the scratches he had scored down one side.  “It…it’s all right.”  It was a lie and he knew Maxwell knew, but it was a lie Maxwell allowed.  He delighted in picking apart any fear or insecurity Wilson showed, but he let him have a few things, the important things.  There were no dogs, and there was enough light, and when his scars ached like they were rotting from the inside out, reaching up into his thigh, down into his hand, he said nothing.  When it got bad enough that he couldn’t hide the stretching, the scratching, the curling in and out of himself for some way, _any_ way to catch a breath, Maxwell would massage his back until he could bear lying down.  
  
He…wasn’t a bad man, really.

Why was he thinking that _now?_

Because the lights had gone off again, and once more might be the last.  
  
"Sleep, then.  _Really_ sleep.  You don’t want me catching you pulling shit like this again.  And take your damn’ pills.  Not on top of that hit, or I’ll be scrapin’ you off the floor, but when you wake up."  He turned briefly, gave a punitive pull to Wilson’s hair, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth at the ensuing whimper.  "Do _not_ make me remind you.  Are we clear?”  
  
Wilson swallowed gratefully, the world not quite so tilted for one sweet moment.  “C-crystal.”  He bit his lip, hating to ask, hating to even acknowledge the damned thing.  “Maxwell…I dropped my, my c-c-cane in the other room.”  
  
"You just said we were clear."  Maxwell pulled him up further, making him squirm.  "Listen when I talk.  You are not going anywhere."  
  
This.  This was a real wound.  “Y-you can’t—”  
  
"If this is what happens when you go out, Wilson, you are staying _in_.  You’ll get out of this room when I say so, and you’re not going back outside."  
  
” _You c-can’t do that!_ ”  
  
This time Maxwell jerked him up so they were face-to-face.  Cigar smoke stung Wilson’s eyes and he struggled to breathe.  
  
"I can do anything I want.  I make the rules!"  
  
There was a note of true anger as he shoved him back, and a note of…it wasn’t desperation, he didn’t want it to be desperation so he’d figure it out, he’d figure it out later with everything else.  Figure out why Maxwell didn’t look him in the eye when he spoke again, figure out why he didn’t even seem to be talking to _him_.  
  
"I run the show."  
  
Wilson didn’t argue as he left, counting away the hurt--the hurting--of his words instead, arranging fractals in his mind until it cleared.  He laid still for a long time, petting Chester’s belly to soothe her, then rolled her over to retrieve his clothes and went through the arduous task of dressing his wounds, then himself.  
  
There was no good way to reach the floor, and when he hit it he bit his lip until it bled to keep from screaming.  He stayed there for a minute, chest heaving, gathering his strength.  
  
He wouldn’t fight Maxwell.  
  
There were better ways to fight.  
  
Wilson began to crawl.


	4. Fourth

When Maxwell appeared in the throne room, his counterpart was already there, surveying the room with all apparent enjoyment.  It smiled widely at him as he lifted his head, spreading its arms.  
  
"His Majesty returns!  I was just thinking, I could build up these walls.  Build them right up around you, as high as they could go.  Happy house, happy home, right friend?"  
  
"What the hell did you plant in Wilson?"  
  
"Oh, are we using his name now?" The Other stroked Maxwell’s hair patronizingly.  "How sweet.  How wonderfully intimate."  It pulled back its hand as Maxwell bit at its wrist, not quite catching it.  "Oh, we _are_ angry.”  
  
Maxwell ignored the taunt, focused, tamped down the rage.  “What did you _do?_   This was you all along.  You said it yourself.  What did you put in that damn’ kid’s head?”  
  
It turned, shrugging expansively.  “He was already seeing things.  I made him see a few more.”  
  
He knew he shouldn’t ask, shouldn’t engage him, but it had been burning at him for too long.  “So you send, what, some ridiculous bogeyman?  A talking bird?  You’re crazier than he is, pal.”  
  
"Corporal DuWhite is a degenerate and a disgrace to his kind, but he is effective.  More importantly, he is local."  
  
It spoke with the same even, matter-of-fact tone that Wilson had at his worst, and a chill crawled up Maxwell’s spine.  He pushed it away, barked laughter.  “Kid, you are unreal.”  
  
It whirled and pressed in on him, closing its claws over his hands and digging in, and as the blood flowed up Maxwell didn’t notice, trapped like a rabbit in the monochrome spiral of its eyes.  
  
"Your reality is small, Mr. Carter."  It dug deeper, voice passionate.  "So very, very **small**.”  It released him, licking the blood from its claws.  “Don’t worry, though, it’s about to get much, much bigger.”  
  
There was too much to deal with, too much to break down, and when he spoke it was an afterthought.  “—the hell are you talking about?”  
  
"You really should keep a leash on him."  
  
The realization took a moment too long to dawn on him, a moment too precious because _every moment counted now_ —  
  
Maxwell transitioned to the false house so quickly the power expenditure winded him.  Wilson’s door was open, his room empty, faint traces of blood leading to where his cane had been dropped.  He didn’t bother calling his name.  He didn’t need to.  If Wilson was on the board, he could have felt it.  
  
He was gone.  
  
The Other chuckled, a strange lilting sound, as Maxwell leaned one shoulder against the wall.  Its voice was sweet and light where his was rough and torn, and it made the words it shaped sting that much harder.  
  
"Your canary flew the coop, friend.  Planned it all along.  Did you really think he was forgetting those pills?  He was stretching them.  Saving them up so he had enough to get away from _you_.”  It touched Maxwell’s cheek delicately, cold enough to burn.  “Do you think he knows he’s coming right for you again?  Do you think he’ll cry?  I think he will.  It’ll be so much fun to watch.  We’ll have so much _fun_.” It slipped its arms around him, breathed cold smoke on his face.  “And then we’ll be free.”  
  
Maxwell didn’t respond as the spectre nipped playfully at his neck, hands slipping down his body.  His eyes were fixed on the carpeted floor where the cane had been, the pool of blood where Wilson had pulled himself upright.  
  
"It must have hurt terribly, don’t you think?  Such determination!  Such desperation.  Couldn’t you just thrive on it?" Its hand cupped between Maxwell’s legs, and it clucked its tongue when it found no traces of excitement.  "No?  Well, that’s a shame."  The Other shoved him, sent him sprawling across the stain, and as its heel pressed his face into it, he could feel that the blood was still warm, just barely warm. " _I’m_ absolutely _enthralled_.”  
  
It straddled him, licked the blood from his cheek. “Come on, friend, it’s all just a game.  And we’re going to win.” The Other pulled Maxwell back into its lap, and not heat but pulsing cold pressed against him, a thick, vulgar threat.  “Or…I am, at least.  You…” It chuckled again as it hooked one claw under Maxwell’s waistband and ripped the fabric apart. “…you’ll be the one in the cage now, I think.”  
  
Maxwell hissed in pain as his counterpart forced its icy fingers up into him, and it grinned madly at his broken silence.  “Do you _like_ that, pal?  Do you like it _rough?_ "  One hand rose to hold Maxwell in place as he tried to arch away, familiar words being spat back at him in mocking, syrupy tones.  "You haven’t been _fucked_ before, have you?  Don’t lie.”  Its claws scissored inside of him, and Maxwell shut his eyes to the violation.  “Or do.  It doesn’t matter.”  It spun him roughly, breathed softly into his ear.  “This is going to hurt.”  
  
The first thrust was hard, vicious, and it did hurt, it hurt like hell, and it was raw in more ways than one—the cold was sharp, brutal, radiating pain to his core.  The shadow’s cock was disgustingly, organically slick, but that was no relief with the jagged way it was reaming into him.  Maxwell reeled, grasped for purchase on the wall, and when the Other licked his neck he couldn’t hold back a shudder.  
  
"Just remember, friend," it purred into his ear, claws digging into his back.  "This is all your fault.  This is exactly what you wanted."  
  
"Know what, pal?"  
  
Surprise crossed the Other’s face as Maxwell looked up, surprise that turned into shock as his hand closed around its throat, and Maxwell’s grin widened.  
  
"You’re right."  
  
The specter fumbled at his hand briefly, dropped it with a gasp as Maxwell started moving his hips.  Shadows rose to tear him away, were torn apart by other shadows.  It tried to lunge at him but was bulled back against the wall, pinned by its counterpart’s body.  
  
"You think you know everything, huh pal?  Think you know me inside and out?"  He pulsed his hips to punctuate each sentence, and chuckled as sweat broke out on the Other’s brow.  "You thought you could break me with a few card tricks and a trained fuckin’ animal?  I’m not broken, kid."  He pressed his face in against his doppelganger’s, the mirror flipped.  "I am mad as hell."  
  
The Other opened its mouth, teeth bared, maybe to taunt, maybe to beg, but Maxwell’s grip tightened and all that came out was a dull croak.  He pistoned his hips ruthlessly, working through the pain, using the grim satisfaction from the furious horror in the shadow’s face to push it away, and when it shot into him it was agonizingly, brutally cold, but the helpless squirming was worth it as it lost control.  Maxwell barked laughter, throttling him.  
  
"Pathetic!  Pathetic wretched little worm, you thought you were running the game?"  Its eyes widened as Maxwell kept thrusting, kept it trapped inside him, and it tried uselessly to speak again—this time to beg, definitely to beg.  "You don’t even know how it’s _played_.”  
  
Maxwell pressed his thumb into the hollow of its throat as it doubled its efforts, shadows rising and falling in tides around them.  It was suffering now, overstimulated, trembling as Maxwell used his free hand to tease him roughly.  Had the stupid thing truly not realized that he would know its body, know every place to stroke and scratch and pinch to force pleasure on it?  “C’mon, friend, I thought we were having _fun_.”  He bit its neck and its chest heaved in what might have been a scream.  “Isn’t this what you wanted?”  He let go of its neck, enjoying the desperation in its gasps for air.  “Well?”  
  
"N—no more, stop it, _goddammit, this isn’t_ —"  
  
"Not what you planned?  That’s because you didn’t plan at all." His muscles were crying their own protest, but it was hardening inside of him, losing control, and every bit of ground it lost he took.  "I will always be ahead of you.  I will always know the board."  He rolled his hips and laughed at the haze in those broken eyes.  "And I will _always win_.”  
  
The shadow writhed as Maxwell fucked it mercilessly, shaking uncontrollably from exertion, and the sweetness was gone from its voice as it screamed in anger, threatened, pleaded, the words blurring together as it weakened.  And as it came in forced agony, spent its last strength without pleasure, he couldn’t help but think that the ragged sound that ripped from its throat was like the cry of a crow.  
  
Maxwell used the wall to pull himself up, muscles screaming in protest, breathing hard. “Stupid _dog_.”  He kicked the miserable, weakened shell, and the rasping, hateful cry it gave made the jag of pain that shot up through his back worth it.  
  
It wasn’t until he tried to light a cigar with shaking hands that the shadow claws ripped into his flesh, pulled him down.  He looked wildly at the Other but it wasn’t the creature’s doing, it was worse—  
  
Maxwell’s head jerked up as he woke up in himself, his true self, true body blissfully free of the suffering he had just gone through but slumped and bound all the same, choked with ageless dust, and he stared straight ahead, knowing what he’d see, hating it.  
  
Wilson stood before the throne.


	5. Last

"Maxwell?"  
  
He turned away at the sound of his name, flinched as Wilson touched his face.  
  
"Maxwell, I d-didn’t…why didn’t you t-t-tell me, I kn-knew it was bad but I c-c-couldn’t imagine…d-does it hurt?"  
  
No.  Yes.  Always.  For ages.  Ages on ages.  He pulled away from his hand.  “What the hell are you doing here, kid?  You had your chance and you took it.”  
  
"What a-are you talking about?"  
  
Maxwell found himself focusing on Wilson’s neck.  If he could move, he could kill him so quickly, so painlessly.  He’d never know.  Never have to know.  He shuddered as he realized what he was thinking, stared down at the shadows piercing his arms.  “Is this what you wanted to see?  Are you satisfied now?  Happy?”  
  
"Wh—why would I be h-h-h-- _happy_ about this?”  
  
He looked up, stung by the genuine alarm in Wilson’s voice.  “…you left.  Picked a good time for it.  Should’ve stayed away.”  
  
"M-Maxwell, I…" He hugged himself, dropping his gaze.  "…I l-lied, I’m sorry I lied but you would have stopped me, you w-wouldn’t have let me go, and…and…"  
  
He didn’t know whether to hope, didn’t know what to hope for.  “…and?”  
  
"…a-and I couldn’t let you k-keep suffering."  
  
Maxwell closed his eyes, motioned him closer.  Wilson knelt at his feet, resting his head close to his hand, and Maxwell stroked his hair as he cried.  
  
It would have been so much easier if he hated him.  
  
"Sweetheart…"  He shook his head.  It wasn’t the time.  "Wilson.  You need to go."  
  
"No.  N-not without you."  
  
"It isn’t possible.  This is it, Wilson.  This is the end of the game." A traitorous thought rose in him like bile, a giddy thrill at the idea of letting him open the Keyhole, letting him reap the consequences— _better him than me_ —  
  
He bit it back.  No, no, _no_ , goddammit, _no_.  He had just put that traitorous sick animal _down_ , he couldn't allow himself petty misery anymore, couldn't blame it on the hateful thing.  He thought of the hooks in Wilson's back and his chest closed up.  _No._   Never.  But oh God, if not that--there wasn't anything _left_.  There wasn't any going back home.  There wasn't a home to go back to.

Maxwell grasped Wilson’s hair, agitated. “We can’t both leave.  It’s the rules.  I stay here, or…or you do, and you’re not doing that.”  He dug his fingernails into his palm hard enough to draw blood.  “Fuck, I don’t know _what_ you’re going to do!  You stupid— _there’s no way out!_ ”  
  
"There is.  Th-there’s a way."  
  
There was stubbornness in Wilson’s eyes when he looked up, and that was rote, but there was…something else, that flare of smugness he got when one of his ridiculous experiments went really _right_.  
  
"I, I, I know you don’t believe me, but the things I see—s-some of them aren’t that bad, some of them are good even, even if they’re unpleasant, b-because some of them don’t _like_ each other, and—and it’s not so crazy that they’d tell me things, things to _build_ , the s-same way you did but _backwards_ , a simple matter of r-r-r-reverse engineering, of making the nnnn, nexus go the _other way_ —”  
  
Maxwell didn’t believe, didn’t dare to believe. “Spit it out, kid.”  
  
Wilson laughed, really laughed, not out of hysteria but of exhausted delight.  “I built a door, Maxwell, I b-built a _door_.  Not—not all the way back, I can’t get it to go that far, but to the surface.” He stood with some difficulty, leaning heavily on his cane.  “I found my camp, the g-garden’s still there, my machines—I could see the _sun_ again, _you_ c-could—”  
  
"Shut up." Wilson wilted, light in his eyes fading at words spoken through clenched teeth.  "Just shut up.  I’m not going anywhere.  I can’t break the rules."  
  
"You can, though, I’ve seen y-you—"  
  
"Parlor tricks, kid.  Stupid fucking gags an amateur could pull off.  This—this is hiding the elephant.  It’s not possible." Maxwell gritted his teeth, body tense, then slowly slumped in the throne.  "Even a king is bound to the board."  
  
” _There are two kings!_ ”  
  
Maxwell looked up in shock at the conviction in Wilson’s voice.  He couldn’t remember the last time he had pushed through his typewriter-stutter.  Wilson laid his hands on Maxwell’s, entwined their fingers.  
  
"You j-just have to d-decide which side of the board you’re on."  
  
Wilson held his hands tightly and pulled.  
  
It wouldn’t have worked if he stopped to think.  That was always the trick of it.  Never look too close.  But he didn’t, couldn’t, let the fervent devotion in Wilson’s face misdirect him, and the pull of shadows down his back was like countless thorns hooked into his flesh, was more agonizing than he could have imagined, but when he thought he couldn’t bear it any longer something snapped, something broke—  
  
He was free.  
  
His legs were weak, atrophied, and pain radiated out from his spine in every direction like electric shocks, but when he realized through the surreal haze that Wilson was the only thing holding him up, he steadied.  “…leave it, kid, I’m up.”  
  
Wilson withdrew only reluctantly, but there was a trace of gratitude as he leaned on his cane, wincing and rubbing his thigh.  
  
Maxwell stood for a moment, looking down at himself, not quite believing.  God, how long had it been?  Diminished as he felt, there was a surge of elation as his mind finally let it be real.  He was _out_.  
  
Although something…didn’t quite feel right.  He turned to look at the nightmare throne—  
  
"D-don’t." Wilson caught his arm, turned him back pleadingly.  "Let’s just f-f-forget.  Please."  
  
Maxwell dropped his hands, smiled ruefully as he shook his head.  “I can’t protect you out there.  You know that, right?”  
  
"We’ll g-get by."  
  
Wilson helped him ease forward, led him to the Door, and when it opened the sunlight was blinding and painful, but the wind that rushed through made his breath catch in his chest.  Fresh air blew the dust away, brought in the scent of the wild.  
  
Maxwell stepped through, petted Chester absently as she slammed into his knees, and was so transfixed by the sky that it took him a moment to realize Wilson wasn’t following, was looking at something in the dark.  
  
"Hey." He jerked his head toward the world ahead of them.  "New rule, sweetheart, you made it yourself.  No looking back."  
  
Wilson jumped guiltily and hurried to his master’s side, the door slamming closed and disappearing.  “S-s-s-sorry.  Just…woolgathering.”  
  
Maxwell lit a cigar, inhaled deeply, breathed out smoke.  “I’ll take it out of your hide.”  
  
Wilson wasn’t sure if he meant that literally, but he didn’t mind either way.  He was exhausted, aching, but it was worth it, it had all been worth it.  
  
And anyway, he saw a lot of things.  Thought he saw a lot of things.  
  
If he told Maxwell that one of those things had been his very shadow breaking loose, bound to the hellish throne even after Maxwell wasn’t, that it had been silently screaming in rage that he could almost feel, he never would have believed him.


	6. Author's Notes (And Fanart!)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes even a got-dang smutfic can run a little deep.

I promised a lengthy explanation for the shenanigans in Flipping the Board, and I’m going to try to deliver it without getting TOO lengthy or sounding TOO crazy.  Hang in there.

_["In which Wilson thinks “](http://cryingalonewithfrankenstein.tumblr.com/post/82565463666/im-the-worlds-worst-visual-artist-but-here-look) _ [these aren’t pills, this is a bird sk](http://cryingalonewithfrankenstein.tumblr.com/post/82565463666/im-the-worlds-worst-visual-artist-but-here-look) [ull](http://cryingalonewithfrankenstein.tumblr.com/post/82565463666/im-the-worlds-worst-visual-artist-but-here-look) _[”.”](http://cryingalonewithfrankenstein.tumblr.com/post/82565463666/im-the-worlds-worst-visual-artist-but-here-look) _  
_[—the fantastic Dr. Jack](http://cryingalonewithfrankenstein.tumblr.com/post/82565463666/im-the-worlds-worst-visual-artist-but-here-look) _

April 2010 is what I tend to refer to as The Bad Month.  I have OCD, and it’s required multiple med changes to keep under control as I’ve built up tolerances over the years.  Usually the side effects aren’t too bad, but Anafranil did not agree with my body chemistry.  It actually disagreed with it so badly that I developed symptoms mimicking paranoid schizophrenia.

I’m not going to say I was actually schizophrenic, although that is a listed incredibly-rare-critical-fumble side effect of the drug.  I’m not licensed to say that, and all my psychiatrist said when I told him I had been on a month-long bad trip was “Interesting”.  (I do not see him anymore and I hope no one else does ever.)

The fact I can state is that I had always had intense, complex, overarching nightmares, and that on the new medication, I became convinced that they were a real alternate reality and once things came to a head, I would go insane and the world would end.  At the same time, an old OCD phobia of becoming legitimately chemically schizophrenic was also made worse by the medication, and I became terrified of the inevitable day I would go insane.

On the last day I was on the pills, I was starting to slur my words.  It was only then that I even remotely realized that it might be the meds.  That is how far I was gone, and I hope that stresses how important an episode this was in my life.

tl;dr my brain told me a lot of bad lies that owned my life for a while.

The thing is, some part of me never stopped believing them.

I understood what had happened, and that I was okay, but I was terrified of it happening again.  I developed a deep phobia of hallucinations.  I was afraid I would look up and see something there and it would mean I was crazy again, even though I never had visual hallucinations.  If I realized I was looking in a mirror I had to stop, because I was afraid of the Troxler Effect making me see myself as a monster.  There were nights where I slept with the light on, not to scare anything away but so if I opened my eyes I wouldn’t see the cat and think I was hallucinating monsters.

Worse than that, some part of me still believed in the nightmares.  Some part of me _wanted_ to believe, because it romanticized things, made it special and unique instead of ugly and frightening.  My nightmare journals became more elaborate.  I scribbled political notes and tried to solve riddles that had no answers.  Corporal DuWhite, a severed blackbird head that tried frequently to steal my body, was a particularly feared entity.  I became afraid of birds because they either died or killed in my dreams.

This has been going on for four years.

Then I happened to need some nightmare filler for a dumbass smut series.

I naturally decided to draw from my own nightmares for Wilson’s hallucinations.  I had at least two friends reading that would recognize the references, and really, why not use the material?

And something in my mind whispered “Because it’ll bring him back.”

And I realized that some part of me really, truly still believed that those bad lies were truth, and if I spoke the name of the monster under the bed, it’d grab my feet and pull me under.

And I went

_fuck_

_that_

_shit._

If I seemed manic while writing the third chapter of Flipping the Board, it’s because I was equal parts giddy and scared as hell.  I was grabbing the scarecrow in the back of my head by the throat and dragging it into the light (yes, those parallels were at least half on purpose).  Either I’d be free of it or I’d spook myself into actually bringing the nightmares back from pure psychology and I’d be back at square one.  When Jack posted the skull-pill fanart, I almost lost it, and then I realized _I didn’t have to_ and I knew things would be all right.

And they were.  I slept soundly.  I have since, or as soundly as I ever do.

The Corporal isn’t gone.

He’s in my head where he belongs.

And the sky is clear again.

Hell’s bells.

If this keeps up I’ll write all the smut you guys _want_.

\----

Lighter FAQ:

  * Can I ask more about the nightmare entities/places?



If you don’t mind me going into extensive detail, shoot.

  * What’s the title this time around?



"Flipping the board" actually has two meanings.  One is the most popular and cathartic way of quitting a game ever.  The other is a chess term, referring to thinking in a way that allows you to see what your opponent is seeing—flipping the board laterally.  Both ended up happening, more or less.

  * So you said you weren’t gonna write non-con…



I don’t know what label to slap on that second sex scene, to be perfectly honest, except “psychological clusterfuck”.  I did, however, deliver on the “Besides, it sets up for [SPOILER] in [SPOILER]” from the last FAQ, so that has to be worth something.

  * What was that post about your floor being dirty?



I’m really glad my sister works late and couldn’t possibly have seen me floundering around trying to figure out top-from-the-bottom positions on the floor/wall okay.  I rejected a couple and eventually just went with the Other turning him because it was the least mentally eye-watering from an anatomic point of view.  Also because my thighs started hurting like a son of a bitch, but.

  * So did you ever sweep your floor?



Do you want me to be a functional human being or do you want me to write smut?

  * Is that it for you?



I am officially on Smutcation.  Specifically, that means taking a little break to recoup, then boarding the S.S. Spank the Waves on a tour of the Kink Islands by way of the Indeterminable Time Gap I very purposefully dropped between the interlude and sequel.  There is a Fluffleboard court on deck and I may well make use of it.

  * Is that it for serious entries in the series?



And it came to pass all that seemed wrong was now right, and those who deserved to were certain to live a long and happy life.

(Do you know your Sondheim?)


End file.
